Ways and Means
by roxiejh
Summary: From working, to drinking. From saving lives, to dating. From betting, to falling into bed with his co-workers. House’s life really isn’t dull for a moment, is it?
1. Prologue

**Title**: Ways and Means  
**Rating**: PG-15/T  
**Characters/Pairings**: House/Cameron, Wilson (so far; likely, many more)  
**Summary**: From working, to drinking. From saving lives, to dating. From betting, to falling into bed with his co-workers. House's life really isn't dull for a moment, is it?  
**Disclaimer**: Not mine, borrowing. Will put them back (relatively) unharmed.  
**Author's Note**: Okay /bites nails/. The second thing I've attempted in the House fandom. Ever! Set... somewhere in late season one, because that's all I've seen ROFL. Be nice! (:  
**Excerpt**: _Wilson smirks, fiddling with the discs still on his desk. "What I want to know is how you knew what I was talking about without me really saying anything."_

* * *

**Prologue**

"Y'know. You could just..."

House glances up to find Wilson gazing at him intently, the rest of the sentence left hanging in the air. Sunlight filters in through the semi-closed blinds, casting long shadows around the small office, and the air is stale with must.

He flexes his eyebrows and looks to the column between them again, not interested in why he knows what Wilson is talking about despite neither of them saying anything for a good five minutes.

"Yeah," he replies through a sarcastic laugh, leaning forward and dropping a black disc into the 'Connect 4' holder. This is the fifth round they've played, with House winning spectacularly four-to-one so far. He can't help but feel a little bit smug about that.

"Why not?" counters Wilson, frowning at the game he can't seem to win.

House reclines back into the plastic seat, shifting a little at the discomfort. "You need better chairs," he complains instead of answering. With a patient a few floors below whose blood won't clot, and his team rushing around following orders trying to find out why, this is hardly a conversation he wants to be having.

Wilson pops a red disc into place, then reaches of over for his sandwich. "She's hot," he continues through a mouthful of bread and cheese.

"Think so?" asks House, staring at his remaining pieces of plastic and wishing he hadn't bothered coming here for lunch.

Wilson nods as he swallows.

"Fine." House slides another disc into a column and looks bluntly at his friend. "You do her, then."

Wilson almost chokes, and House can't help the whisper of a smile that briefly crosses his lips. When he looks up next it's into an intrigued, interested gaze, and he quickly drops his eyes to his shoes.

"You're unbelievable."

"Yup. Gonna take your go?"

Sighing, Wilson selects a plastic piece and drops it into the column at the end of the board, and House can't help but think he's not really playing any more.

"You obviously like her," Wilson comments, taking another bite of his sandwich.

"I don't like anyone," House retorts matter-of-factly, spotting an opening in the game.

"You like me," Wilson points out, "and this screwed up excuse for a friendship."

"No," corrects House, and his eyes almost sparkle, "you just annoy me the least."

"Great, thanks."

There's silence again as the two drop a few more pieces into the vertical board. The clock ticking on the wall becomes intrusive to House's thoughts, and he tries to block out questions forming in his mind with every second. Tick. Tick. As the silence drags on, House becomes acutely aware that Wilson is looking at him in the way always makes him feel uncomfortable. He tries to ignore him, but the hairs on the back of his neck start tingling: he doesn't like being watched.

"What?" he almost accuses defensively.

Wilson smirks, fiddling with the discs still on his desk. "What I want to know is how you knew what I was talking about without me really saying anything."

"I'm psychic," House scoffs, pulling a face. "Take your go so I can win already, lunch shift is almost over."

Wilson leans forward conspiratorially and House can't shake the feeling that he is more than a little cornered.

"Twenty bucks says she wouldn't go on a second date with you."

House very nearly laughs. Sitting up, he stares at his friend who is-but-isn't, part in shock, part in humor.

"You're... actually serious," he realizes out loud, and he admits he's a little surprised.

Wilson nods again, drops another piece into place.

Chuckling jeeringly, he counters the move. "She totally would."

"Ask her, then. Prove me wrong."

"No." House raises his eyebrows and his gaze. "That would be taking advantage of my position, both as her boss and... y'know. The rest."

Wilson eyes him slyly and House begins to wish he'd come prepared for this conversation.

"Fifty," Wilson dares.

He watches as Wilson fills one of the column with another red piece, glancing quickly at his watch. Show time. "Deal. Though, anyone would think you _want_ me to be miserable."

Reaching for his cane, he clambers to his feet and grabs his jacket from the back of the chair.

"It's for your own good," Wilson insists, laughing.

House shrugs on his jacket. "Fifty bucks," he clarifies, pointing. "Plus expenses."

"That wasn't the deal."

"It is now." He begins to limp over to the door, but stops before he reaches it by Wilson's protestations.

"Hey, wait – you aren't going to finish the game?"

House sighs exaggeratedly. With one disc left, he turns and slips it into one of the remaining holes.

"I win," he mocks. "See you later."

He leaves Wilson frowning over the lost game and hobbles off down the corridor to find his team, cane echoing loudly on the linoleum floor.


	2. Everybody Lies

One  
**Everybody Lies**

One cured patient with a lot of lost blood later, House finds himself sneaking back to his office. He can't deal with weepy mothers and grateful relatives, least of all when it's eleven o' clock at night. He winces with every second step he takes, grousing at nurses he passes if they happen to look all concerned at him. The last thing he needs right now is sympathy. Cursing himself for leaving the Vicodin in a shoe-box on the desk by the window, he's all too grateful when the door to his office, the words **House, M.D****.** engraved elegantly in the glass, comes into view around the corner.

He's not so grateful when Wilson appears in front of him, a cheeky, boyish look in his eyes. House hates that look. Sometimes he likes it and sometimes he plays along with it, but now, he hates it. It's been a long day.

"You're in my way," he says, less curtly than he would like, more so than is necessary.

Wilson raises a teasing eyebrow. "Actually, you're in mine," he quips. "I'm on my way to get these tested out." He holds up some laminated pages, and House grimaces sympathetically.

"Ooh, they look pretty," he jokes gruffly. "Enjoy your tumors. I'm going home."

He begins to make his way around Wilson, who checks his wristwatch. "Early for you," he comments.

"And late for others. Night, Wilson."

"You haven't forgotten about our deal, have you?" Wilson calls after him.

"No," House mutters, as Wilson turns and goes down the corridor, assuming no response. "I just want you to think I have."

As he makes his way over to the shoe-box at the back of the room, glancing briefly to the stack of playing cards on his desk as he does so, he tries to forget all about Wilson's bet and the possible ramifications thereof. It works, nearly, until he succumbs to a game of solitaire and four games later Cameron's at his door.

She knocks, but he already knows it's her; he can see her shoes in his peripheral vision.

"Weren't you going home?" she asks, approaching his desk. He frowns down at the cards in front of him, knowing that he's very close to loss.

"One sec."

He peels the two of clubs off the table, placing it over the three of hearts. Quickly, before he flips the next card, he glances at the card underneath, just to see his chances.

"Cheater," Cameron comments with a smile from above him. He sighs.

"Your point?" he asks, looking up with the deck still in hand. "This is the fourth game I've lost."

She folds her arms and shifts her weight onto one leg. "And that makes cheating all right?"

She's smiling, but he doesn't see the funny side.

"Yes," he all but snarls instead, collecting his cards up into a large pile.

Cameron blinks and he pretends not to see, pretends not to notice how very thick her eyelashes are from mascara.

"Yes?" she quizzes as he shuffles the deck.

He looks up. "Yes," he repeats, like she's five and doesn't understand a thing. "As in, 'Yes, I am supposed to be going home'. But with you standing over me like that, evidently with something to say, it would be rude to leave. Oh, wait." He gets to his feet and fakes a pallid smile. "I don't care."

He reaches for his cane and he feels Cameron's gaze boring into him. It would be so easy to leave and ignore her, but somehow, he knows he's not going to get away without saying another word.

Wilson's bet suddenly pops up into his mind and he rams it right back down, waiting for a different time and a different opportunity, because right now really isn't the one. Not with pain still twitching in his leg, a nice, welcoming bed calling to him from home, and expectant eyes keeping their focus entirely on him.

House straightens, rubs his fingers tiredly across his sore eyes so that they meet at the bridge of his nose. "Okay," he relents, and he looks directly at her, dropping his hand. "What do you want?"

She tilts her head slightly, smiling and lowering her gaze. It's a look he's seen on her many times before, and it usually means she's lying, or about to lie.

"I... wanted to tell you Mr. Stephens is doing just fine." She smiles. He doesn't.

"Great, thanks," he gripes, leaning on his cane and taking a step around the desk. "I've been waiting all day to hear that. Now I can go home and sleep soundly, knowing that Mr Stephens is doing just fine. Excuse me."

"Blood clot guy?" she reminds, as though trying to provoke a reaction.

"I know who Mr. Stephens is," he declares patronizingly, fighting off the urge to roll his eyes then wondering why. "He was, if you recall, my patient. That's why we've been working on him. To make him better. That's what doctors do, isn't it, Cameron? We make people better. I know he's 'just fine', I was the one who gave him his medication. So don't come up here expecting thanks for telling me something I already know."

In all honesty, he really doesn't know why he's being unpleasant – well, more unpleasant than usual. She worked hard, she works hard, she probably deserves some recognition for what she does. And he was right, those couple of weeks ago, when he was standing outside her front door all but on his hands and knees to get her to come back and work for him.

She _is_ a good doctor.

She also has nice breasts.

And he really doesn't know why he's being so acidic. Later he'll blame it on being tired and in pain, of course, but now it just seems the fitting way to be.

Grabbing his bag from beside his desk, he limps past her, towards his door, a mere break for freedom.

"I was lying," she admits quickly from behind him and he stops, tilts his head up to the ceiling in defeat.

"Yeah. Got that."

"We..." He listens to the footfalls on the carpet as she approaches, but he doesn't turn around. If he keeps focused on the door and getting to it, he thinks maybe he'll get out quicker. Then he wonders who he's trying to kid and, shoulders tense, he turns again.

"It's cruel to do this to a cripple," he points out, his attempt to seem less of a jerk, but she doesn't take the bait. In fact, if he thinks about it, she looks quite nervous.

Cameron pauses, fiddling with her hands.

Eyebrows raised, House glances to them, then back up again. "You okay?" he asks slowly, tongue clicking in his mouth.

"Yeah," she answers, far too quickly, and then he can't believe it because she's actually blushing. "We're... we're going for a drink."

His eyebrows rise in further surprise, and he leans on his cane, considering her with interest. "Are we?"

"Foreman and Chase and me. I mean."

"And 'I'," he corrects. She gives him a look like he's just dribbled on his shirt, not saved someone's life, and this time he really does roll his eyes. "'Foreman and Chase and _I_. You got a medical degree with that grammar? Appalling."

She folds her arm. This is not a good sign. It doesn't compute with his 'getting to the door quick' escape plan, either.

"Me. Foreman. Chase. Drink, after work. We... thought it would be nice if you'd come."

"No, you didn't," he counters almost immediately, a knowing look in his eyes. "Or, rather, no _they_ didn't. They didn't think it would be nice. Neither of them like me that much. You do."

She opens her mouth to say something, and her tongue hovers at her teeth as she tries and fails to think of a witty comeback. He can almost see the cogs working in her mind. No match for him, is Cameron.

"They think you're a good doctor," she tries, and he wonders if she's clever or manipulative for trying to coax him into it with his ego. It doesn't work, whichever.

"And I agree with them," he comments, turning his head to glance longingly at the door.

"Please? Come?"

Looking back, he shakes his head with a tight-lipped smile, standing straight once again. "No." Her expression clearly asks 'why-the-hell-not?', so he answers it before her mouth can ask. "I spend enough time working with all of you during the day. Sometimes during the nights. Anything extra would be just..." He makes a face like he's just taken a bite of raw chicken. "Bleargh. Sorry to disappoint. Goodnight."

He turns and walks off, but she dashes in front of him before he can take many more steps and he holds in an annoyed groan that rises involuntarily in his throat.

"We might talk about you," she confesses invitingly, a youthful playfulness dancing in her eyes and smile. "And if you don't come with us, it'll probably all be..."

He looks at her expectantly, eyes stinging with persistent tiredness. "Yes?"

"You know." She shrugs and looks away again, seemingly losing her nerve. "It'll be better, if you're there."

House takes a step back slightly, taking her in. She's still in her lab coat, complete with two pens sticking out from the coat pocket. Her hair's up and back from the day's shift and she looks a little peaky, but she also looks... nice. Amusement begins to play with his features and demeanor, a child with new toys.

"You really want me," he comments, frowning playfully. "Don't you?"

"It would be good for you," Cameron insists, meeting his eye and apparently ignoring anything _else_ he might have meant in his statement (there was nothing else at all, of course, he tells himself brusquely, aside from his usual House-ness).

"So would sleep," he retorts pointedly, and suddenly the crabbiness is back, with a vengeance and a deep desire to make itself known. He pushes past her once more, promising that if she stops him a third time, he's not responsible for his actions. "Good night, Cameron. Enjoy your drink with the boys. And do try not to have too much sex on your way out, would you? It's... messy."

He saunters out without waiting for a reply, or an insult (probably both), and as he paces towards the lift, he smirks. Working here, it's not so bad. He has a satisfied sort of feeling he'll be sleeping very well tonight.

-I-

As it happens, he doesn't sleep well. He stays up 'til gone one-thirty, watching re-runs of cheesy soaps he has no interest in on the TV. They're not even vaguely medical; just bad acting and worse scripts.

He pours himself a glass of wine (red; he is, on occasion, a red wine man) and falls asleep to the Beatles' _Strawberry Fields Forever_. He dreams fitfully, about gunshots and not being able to clot, and when he does eventually wake, it's with pillow creases in his sagging cheeks, stabbing pains in his leg, and far too early for comfort. It's not even dawn, but it's still too late to return properly to sleep. So he gets up, dresses, swallows something for the pain and makes a cup of tea. Then he watches the sunrise through stifled yawns, and starts getting ready for day.

He's late to work. When he gets there his eyes are red and his beard unkempt and he barely speaks a word to anyone all day. He ponders throwing a request for drinks at Cameron, but he doesn't do that, either. A whole week goes by before he realizes he still has fifty dollars to make, by which time, the moments for doing so have passed. That is until one Wednesday afternoon an opportunity presents itself so perfectly he can't turn it down.

He asks her for a drink and dinner, perhaps at his if she's lucky, because a case comes up that needs studies done outside clinic hours, and it's work for two.

She says no.

He tries to ignore the deflating balloon of disappointment, convincing himself it's only fifty dollars. He doesn't argue, convince her, or ask why. He just swallows it down and gets on with it. Because he's House and that is what he does.

He doesn't suggest it again.


	3. Lapse of Concentration

Two  
**Lapse of Concentration**

House stands in the corridor, looking in on the woman they've been treating for the past two days, a sombre expression lining the wrinkles in his face. She'd come into the clinic complaining of daily headaches and fatigue; House had told her to start drinking more water and to stop joining sugar-free diets. He'd left the room two minutes after he'd gone in, striding up to Cuddy's office to complain about nonsensical patients bothering him with their domestic lives.

She'd collapsed on her way out of the hospital. Now, here she is, dying, and none of them can figure out why. Her entire body is shutting down, one organ at a time.

His pale, sickly reflection stares back at him hollowly in the glass, but he ignores it, looking instead at the twenty-six-year-old who is relying on machines to do her breathing for her. He hopes that, when he dies, it'll be quick. He doesn't care if it's painful or painless, because if it's quick, he won't really notice. What he doesn't want is to linger in a hospitable bed while his loved ones do all they can to make him cling onto life in vain. It's no way to go.

He's not sure he likes the little voice in mind that tells him he may not _have_ any loved ones by then; he barely has them now.

"Thought you didn't like visiting the patients."

Breaking out of his reverie, House wonders how long Cameron has been stood there. He's usually so much better at noticing when people turn up.

"Only when they're conscious," he counters, eyes moving form the brunette to her husband asleep in the chair beside her. "It's not so bad when they're not awake. They generally don't complain and ask me for my sympathy."

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches her smile.

"You know, ever since I met you I've been trying to figure you out," she admits, lightheartedness in her voice.

"Who doesn't?" He turns, knowing she's watching the patients, not him. "People seem to think I'm 'interesting' – can't think why."

When she looks up at him, she's smirking, and it's glittering in her eyes like a dare. "You care, really."

House points to the couple in the hospital room. "About them? Nah."

"You wouldn't do what you do if you didn't," Cameron sing-songs quietly, looking back to them. "Admit it, House. Secretly, deep down, you care about your patients."

He considers the statement for a few moments, the smallest of frowns bunching in his eyebrows.

"I care about their illnesses," he replies thoughtfully, like it's the first time he's considered it. "People are people. Whether they're good, bad, ugly, cheaters, liars, saints... they're people, and they're supposed to be a certain way. When they're not, when things happen, I want to know why. It's our job to find out what's wrong and to fix it. Bringing things like sympathy and compassion into the mix only complicates things, obscures logic and reason."

There's silence for a minute or so, shrouding their conversation like a cloud over the sun.

"She's going to die," Cameron murmurs and he frowns in response.

He risks a glance to her, fingers almost twitching with the sudden, irrational urge, to put a hand on her shoulder in comfort. Cameron cares too much about the patients; he's always thought that. Sometimes it gets in the way of her medical profession, too, and occasionally he calls her on it because it's actually a quality he grudgingly admires. He likes that she's young enough to still care about people.

"She might not," he says instead, ever the voice of reason. "She might snap right out of it."

"No one snaps out of death, House."

"With everything you've seen while you've been here," he challenges gently, eyebrows lifting, "do you really think that?"

She turns her head quickly, looking up to him with deep, honest eyes. He swallows slightly, trying to breathe his way out of claustrophobia. Then he notices the slight redness in her eyes, the mild glistening filter of tears, and he wonders what's happened to her to make her suddenly cynical. Something twitches, deep in his gut, and somehow he realizes that an awful lot is riding on this case for Cameron. She doesn't like watching people die, no one does, but there's something else that's got to her.

He doesn't ask what it is – part of him doesn't want to know – but now he's convinced that he _has_ to save this patient's life, and in part, maybe some of Cameron's. She can't lose her faith in people, not like he's lost his.

Because she's right, he does care. About the little things that can't be explained away, about the value of life, and about the things that make it interesting.

Suddenly, his frown deepens, and he's staring so intently at the woman in the next room he almost doesn't hear Cameron question him.

"Look," he commands quietly, and she does, and when she gasps softly he knows she's seen what he's seen.

"She's... she's moving..."

"Only just," House responds, staring at the fingers twitching on the bed covers, "but yes."

"That's a good sign, right?"

"It's a very good sign." Without another word he crosses Cameron and pulls open the door to the room, going over to the side of the bed.

Retrieving a pin from his pocket he jabs the patient in the fingertip, just slightly, then watches as a reactive frown appears on her face. Her husband's still asleep, unaware that his wife is fighting so strongly to hold on to life that she might just pull through, despite the fact every test saying she should be dead by the morning.

He's a doctor and he saves people, but sometimes, life beats him to it. And that, at the end of the day, is why he does what he does. To be proved wrong.

-I-

"She's getting _better_?"

Foreman eyes him suspiciously and House nods, taking a swig from his mug.

"Seems that way, yeah."

Chase frowns, looking around to them all. "But why?"

House shrugs. "No idea. She didn't respond to any of the tests, everything came up negative, there didn't seem to be anything actually wrong with her. Maybe that's why." His sentence tails off as he lapses into thought, and when he speaks again next, it's more to himself. "Maybe she's getting better because there was nothing wrong in the first place."

"She was dying," Chase points out.

"Oh, we're all dying," House almost snaps, grimacing. "Fact of life. From the moment you're born, you're dying. She just... started doing it a little earlier. Now she's stopped."

"So," Foreman says, crossing his arms and frowning, hard, "you're telling us she's getting better because she's stopped dying?"

House nods again, looking at Cameron, who has been sat in silence since the beginning of the meeting. "Cameron?" he probes, approaching her. "Any thoughts? Any diagnoses?"

"She was _dying_." She looks up to him, then around the room in accusation.

"Yes, and now she's not. We've covered this."

Her eyes are hard on him, like she's blaming him, and the beginnings of interest in something that isn't being said sparks up in his mind.

"People don't just stop dying," she says testily.

House looks up, catches Foreman and Chase exchanging a furtive glance. He drops his gaze to her again.

"You might be surprised, but most of the time, we actually do stop people dying."

"Yes, _we_ do. They don't do it on their own. There has to have been a cause."

"And you can't just accept the fact she's going to live?" he disputes mockingly, pushing buttons because she makes it far too easy. In truth, he's more than a little intrigued at the patient's recovery, and after the meeting, he's going to set about finding out what actually happened. That's after, of course, he's done with winding Cameron up.

"No." She gets to her feet, glowering. "And neither should you."

Surprising him, she stalks out of the diagnostics room, her ponytail swinging as she goes. Shrugging it off, House turns to his other coworkers, making an 'oops' face, before going to the counter to boil the kettle. When he notices the silence in the room get too heavy, he sighs and looks at them. They're both avoiding his gaze, and he can't help but get the feeling he's missing something.

"What?" he quizzes, not liking being the last to know.

Chase looks like he's about to say something, but he closes his mouth, frowning. Expectantly, House turns his attention to Foreman, who does more or less the same.

"Someone going to tell me what's going on?" House grumbles, leaning against the counter as he surveys them, "Or am I going to stay in the dark?"

"I think," Foreman starts, catching his eye with an apologetic expression. "I think this is about the time of year her husband died."

"Yeah," Chase continues, also looking up, "you might want to be a bit more subtle about life and death in the future."

House considers both like they've gone mad. "We work in a _hospital_," he points out loudly after a few moments of silence, replacing his mug on the counter. "People die. That is what they do. If they're lucky, we postpone it, but death is quite the expected outcome here, especially if you're the doctor."

"Yeah, but... you know how Cameron is," Chase defends, folding his arms over his body and looking reproachfully at House.

"Oh, come on. If she can't deal with death," House argues, crossing the room to collect his cane, "then she's in the wrong profession."

"Going somewhere?" Foreman asks, in a tone that always inflames House's nerves.

"Too much coffee," he bites out. "Keep the patient on watch, make sure she really is recovering. I'll see you later."

He limps heavily out of the door, hand tightening on the cane as he walks. He doesn't really know where he's going; except that he does, really, because he's a human being and he does feel a little bit guilty. Just a little bit. It's enough for him to not want to think about it, so he doesn't, and just keeps walking.

-I-

She's outside, sitting at one of the benches and staring distantly into space.

He pauses in the doorway to the hospital. Having found her, he's not so sure he wants to make himself known. Then, rolling his eyes skyward for his reluctance, he pops a pill into his mouth for artificial courage and makes his way slowly over to her.

Peering down at the top of her head, hand twitching on his cane, he says, "You're upset because she's going to live? Wow. How supportive." After all, a bit of gentle accusation never hurt anyone.

She doesn't seem to register his existence. So, resting his cane against the table, he takes a seat opposite her and folds his hands together on the wood, watching her.

When Cameron doesn't look at him, he knows she's ignoring him because he's pushing her buttons. Good, just the way it should be. He waits for her to make the first move.

"Why are you here?" she asks eventually, after at least a whole minute of silence.

He sits back, regarding her severely. "You walked out of a meeting. Sanctions have to be taken."

Finally, she turns her head, face and expression cold, and he looks right back with a blank face and the slightest of raised eyebrows. If she wants to challenge him, she's going to have to do better than that.

"You have no idea what being human is, do you?"

The cutting edge to her statement is dampened slightly by the fact that he's amused by the accusation. "Well, I have an _idea_. I think I read an article on it somewhere. It says you don't walk out when told your patient is going to live."

"Doesn't it bother you that there was nothing wrong?" she tries instead, and he's mildly impressed at her deflection of his jibe.

"I never said there was nothing wrong," he points out, craning his neck backwards and staring into the blue sky. "I just said we hadn't found anything."

"You asked me to 'accept' the fact she was living, without any reason for it all!" She glares at him. House just looks back at her patiently, his expression almost pleasant, and he watches as the penny drops. "You were doing it on purpose," she realizes.

"And you made it so easy," he replies flippantly, probably enjoying this a little too much. She's hurt, and a little angry, he can see it in her eyes and written across her features, so before she comes back with something that's supposed to make him feel guilty, he rolls his eyes, leans forward, and continues. "Look, Cameron. You're a good doctor. And it's good that you care, but – "

"House. I don't need a pep talk."

He stops, nods, sits back again and considers her quietly.

Cameron bows her head slightly and shifts in her seat. The hairs at the back of House's neck tingle again as he tries to fight off the uncomfortable feeling that he's said the wrong thing. He opens his mouth to say something else, anything, but the only things that come to mind are barbed jokes, and he doesn't think those would be tactful right now.

Eventually, he settles on asking her directly.

"Are you – "

"Don't."

She looks up, her face drawn, and he recognizes the expression in her eyes: he sees it in his mirror every morning.

He taps his fingers on the wood. "Okay," he relents, nodding. "I won't."

Their gaze holds for a long moment, and it's only then that he sees the beginning of a smile tug at her mouth. "Thank you."

His lips quirk tightly in response, and her smile widens, like they've just shared a joke over lunch. He actually feels a small buzz of happiness at that thought, somewhere, and he likes it.

He wants more.

"I should..." He indicates the building with his head and reaches for his cane. Before he stands up, he catches her eye once more. "Do me a favor. If we get a patient who lives again, can you try to care a little bit less?"

It's meant as a joke, sort of, but Cameron simply nods soberly. He stands. Giving her a supportive nod as he goes, he makes his way back into work.

"House."

He stops, turns, squints up into the sunlight.

"Cameron?"

"A drink. After work, to celebrate."

There's no nervousness in her voice this time, and that alone makes him want to do so more than before. But he hesitates, makes an incomprehensible noise at the back of his throat. Fifty dollars appears in his mind, the first time he's thought of it since she turned him down.

"No." She doesn't look that surprised. After a hesitation, he adds, "Dinner. Drinks are for getting drunk. Dinners are for celebrating."

She stands, then, an eyebrow raised, and he knows she's trying to figure him out, has just added another layer to her 'House' analysis, and there's something in that idea that he likes. More than he should.

"Your place?"

He shakes his head. "Out. Give you an excuse to dress up."

"Because the last time went so well?" she jokes, hands on her hips, and part of him is more than a little smug that he seems to have cheered her up.

"If at first you don't succeed..." he quips with a lift of his cane. "I'll pick you up at eight."

"I don't get off work until seven," she complains as he turns to go.

"Eight-thirty, then," he calls back over his shoulder, and as the double-doors slide open for his entrance, he gets the strangest urge to hum.


	4. Wicked Games

Three  
**Wicked Games**

"You owe me fifty dollars," says House as he passes Wilson in the corridor.

Wilson, who's checking through a file while he walks, looks up and turns to find House's back retreating.

"You mean, you actually asked her?" he asks through a shocked laugh, catching him up.

House nods. "Yup."

"And she said yes. After the complete disaster that was last time?"

"Why is this so hard for you grasp?" House asks, stopping and rounding on his friend. "You should be careful, I might get offended."

"Well, let's be honest," Wilson chuckles, an eyebrow raised, "you don't exactly have a good track record when it comes to dating."

"It's not really a date," House clarifies, tapping his cane on the floor and staring at a dubious stain on the wall. "It's a celebration. Dates imply romantic interest. I wanted the money."

Wilson goes back to his files and scans a random page. "You ask her for dinner?" he asks casually, checking one thing off against another.

"Yeah." House considers his friend, who seems to be partially ignoring him. "Dinner doesn't mean a date. Dinner can mean anything. Food between two friends, for example." He leans against the wall and folds his arms, playing with humor like a cat with a ball of twine. "Are you trying to tell me all this time I thought we've been eating lunch we've actually been _dating_? You should have said, I would've put more effort into it."

Wilson looks up with an air of feigned impatience, and House can tell he's trying not to crack a smile.

"You're right," he concedes. "Dinner can mean those things. But when it's you, and when it's a woman..." He shrugs. "It's a date."

House, bored of the conversation, pushes himself away from the wall. "Fifty dollars," he demands.

"I don't have it _on_ me," Wilson objects in the face of House's expectancy. "Swing by my office on your way out."

House nods and straightens, tired from the day already. "If you try to pull out of this one, remember, I know where you live."

Wilson laughs and backs away. "Don't worry," he reassures with mocking tones, raising his hands, "you'll get your money. Just don't... hurt me. Or my patients."

"I love your faith in me," House retorts with the sort of face a four-year-old might pull to a sibling.

"I'll see you, House." He walks off down the corridor, shaking his head laughingly.

House watches him go for a few moments, then presses the button on the elevator and spends the rest of the day idly counting down the hours until he goes home.

-I-

House leans casually against the doorframe and checks his watch, the leather bound tightly around his arm. He follows the second hand round a whole minute before lifting his cane and tapping three times on Cameron's front door.

She opens it almost immediately, causing him to wonder if she was waiting for him. It seems just the sort of Cameron thing to do, pacing the hallway, wondering if her date-who-isn't-a-date is actually going to show up. He can't imagine her ever getting stood up, but from what he knows of Cameron, that wouldn't make her any the less paranoid about it.

"Ready to go?" he asks, eyebrows raised as he takes her in. He invited her to dress up, and she certainly took that invitation without needing any more encouragement. Knee-length skirt, tight enough to shape her legs, and a blouse that's ever so slightly frilled. It accentuates her in a subtle way, as does the brief dash of eye-makeup and the hair that's only half up, leaving the rest to fall haphazardly around her shoulders. He's taken with the sudden urge to tell her she looks nice, but this isn't a date, so he doesn't have any need to start this on false pretenses.

For the record, his eyes glance to her shoes, then her ears, and he catches her smirking gaze on his journey.

"You don't have to..." she starts, smiling, evidently remembering the last time.

He nods, once. "I wasn't."

She reaches behind the door, grabbing her purse, and then they're walking down the corridor, House limping only slightly in his attempt not to make the pain in his leg too obvious. Neither of them say anything. Their shoulders bump once or twice as they round the corner, but other than that, they don't touch, either, and House wonders whether this is really such a good idea after all.

The cab's waiting for them outside, and as he and Cameron slide into the back seat, House leans forward and murmurs something in the driver's ear, who nods.

Sitting back, he can feel Cameron's gaze on him, burning into him. He tilts his head back slightly, keeping his eyes fixed forwards.

"Where are we going?" she asks quietly.

"It's a surprise," he mutters dramatically, and he doesn't look at her the whole way there.

-I-

They're sitting at the table, choosing wines while the waiter hovers irritatingly beside them. They haven't been on their own since they walked in, the restaurant too worried about 'good service' and 'image' to actually care whether its occupants want to be left to their own devices. He's not coming here again, that's for sure.

"Are you going to do that the whole night?" House questions, eyes grazing the page in front of him and tone mildly annoyed.

"House," Cameron rebukes, eying him over the top of the wine list. He glances up, both surprised and pleased to find something playful in her gaze.

"Just asking," he shrugs, and he closes the list, staring patronizingly up to their waiter who he already knows isn't getting a tip. "I'd say you're free to join us, but three-way sex doesn't look like your thing."

"House, leave the poor guy alone!" Cameron tries again, but he can hear the laugh that's crept in to the peripherals of her voice and it only serves to encourage him.

Ignoring her, he waits patiently for an answer from his new friend.

The waiter stares down, unaffected. "What would you like to drink, sir?"

"Was that a proposition?" House teases sardonically, resting his chin in his hands and putting on his innocent face.

"We'll have a house red," Cameron addresses before House can carry on. The waiter writes it down, nods, and walks away, finally leaving them on their own.

House turns to her with a highly exaggerated pout. She's staring down at the menu, laid flat on the table, and he knows she's averting his gaze, so he sits there staring at her with the pout continuing, wondering when she'll break.

It takes all of twenty seconds before she laughs and looks up, shaking her head at him, and he just sits there blinking at her.

"Stop it!" she laughs, and he can feel the corners of his mouth strain with the contagious urge to laugh with her. He settles on sitting back with a relatively neutral expression, eyes sparkling with teasing humor.

The atmosphere is completely different from the last time they did this. The babble of the restaurant seems quieter, duller, so much so that he doesn't really notice it. The gentle clatter of knives and forks, the quiet bantering, the occasional chink of glass on glass: it's quite relaxed here, and the lighting in the whole room is soft enough to cast blurry shadows that merge inseparably together on the walls and floor.

"You look... nice," House says, the words out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he drops his gaze to the tablecloth.

"House, I told you, you don't have to – "

"And I wasn't," he repeats, looking up again sincerely. He swallows, wishing longingly for that wine, or maybe even a scotch. "But you do."

Their gaze holds above the candlelight, seconds ticking away between them; then the flame flickers and Cameron's looking at her menu again, her hand supporting her neck as she looks down.

House breathes quietly through his nose, trying not to think about all the strange desires currently swimming about in the murkiness of his head. He glances across the restaurant and spots their waiter heading back, bottle of wine in hand, so in his attempt to look busy he reaches for his own menu.

He swallows down a biting remark that springs to mind, with a taste of the wine, then nods his approval. The swish of the liquid as it hits the glass almost makes him smile, and he has no idea why.

He lifts his drink when Cameron does, tipping his head slightly to one side.

"Cheers," he says quietly, and takes a swig, eyes holding with hers as she does the same.

Maybe it won't be such a bad night after all.

-I-

House pokes the half-eaten meat around his plate with his fork, the tepid tones of conversation boring him in the struggling evening. Having previously decided not to talk about work, he doesn't want to admit that he's striving for things to say in place that don't sound contrived or just plain silly.

Not talking about work, however, leaves talking about personal things, and he doesn't want to talk about those, either. In fact, this is probably why he doesn't like dinner as a dating method, even when this _isn't_ a dating method: he likes to eat when he has food, or talk when he has company. Mixing the circumstances when it's blown up and out of proportion makes for awkward silences and actions that are nearly always taken the wrong way.

Like earlier, for example, when they both reached for the jug of water at the same time, resulting in their hands touching, briefly. House's had snapped back almost instantly, as though he'd been burned, and then he'd had to say something so as not to appear a total ass. The fact that he had even needed to say something not to appear a total ass, when everywhere else he could get away with being just that, had reminded him why he never did this sort of thing, and had been part of his decision why he was never doing this again.

He takes a slow mouthful, chewing thoughtfully, and he stares distantly into space.

"Do you think they'll notice?" Cameron asks effortlessly, breaking him out of his thoughts.

He frowns. "Who?"

"At work. This."

Oh, no. He's not going down this path, not this conversation. It certainly can't lead anywhere good, and there is absolutely no way he's –

There's a crash from about three tables along, and then an alarmed shout of a name.

"Oh my God," Cameron says, and, throwing her napkin down, she gets to her feet. A lot of other people seem to be doing the same. House glances quickly over to the commotion: a man has fainted, or collapsed, and is lying sprawled out on the restaurant floor. He's not moving, but he's not dead either.

"Is anyone a doctor?" someone shouts, his date by the look of it.

"Call an ambulance!" cries someone else, and House, spotting one of the staff already on the phone, goes back to his meal.

Cameron crosses beside him, going over to the man, but House grabs her wrist as she passes him. She stares down at him, shocked.

"Leave him," he says, and indicates her food. "He'll be fine."

"He's collapsed!" Cameron argues as more people explode into panic around them. She wrenches her arm out of his grip. "Have some compassion, will you? We need to check and make sure he's stable and that he didn't hit his head on the way down. There's also – "

"Nothing you can do," he finishes her firmly, eyes hard. "He's not in any immediate danger, apart from the idiots who are crowding him. So sit down."

The withering look he's given grates on his nerves and he frowns up at her, hard.

"I'm going to go see if I can save his life," she snaps, far too melodramatically for his liking, and he rolls his eyes. "Enjoy your meal. Hope it doesn't choke you in your haste to be out of here so quickly."

She marches off and he shakes his head, listening to the authority in her voice as she tells people she's a doctor and that she knows what she's doing...

House finishes his meal alone.

-I-

Cameron grabs her jacket from the back of the chair as the man is carried out of the restaurant on a stretcher. House stands, having already paid for their meal, and meets her gaze with a cutting expression.

She nods icily in return, and they leave the restaurant without saying a word to each other.

-I-

He walks her to the front door of the apartment building, acutely aware that the air is between them is so cold glaciers could form at any minute.

She fumbles in her purse for her keys and he sighs heavily, watching her.

"I guess that's two to add to the failure list," he quips, and she looks up sharply.

"You are such a bastard, House."

"So the rumors say..."

He leans back against the wooden frame of the porch in light of her glare, the night air like a blade on his cheek.

Looking at her without a hint of humor, he shrugs. "What did you want me to do?"

"You're a doctor; you could have helped."

"Could _you_ do anything?" he points out, unable to keep the defensiveness out of his voice. "I mean, really, could you? Aside from wait around for the ambulance boys to turn up. You probably did more damage than help."

"You didn't even get up," she counters him, and he can't tell whether she's angry or upset.

"No," he agrees, bowing his head slightly, "because I didn't need to."

The way she's looking at him, dumbfounded, makes him wonder just how well she knows him after all. He certainly hopes she'll go in asking herself that question.

He sighs again, leaning his head back against the wooden support behind him. He lifts his cane into the air, swinging it from side to side.

"I didn't need to..." he continues, voice drawn out, "because I knew you would. You care too much not to. And you're good at what you do, so I figured one of us should at least enjoy their meal."

The cab honks obnoxiously from the road and Cameron, who's found her keys, steps towards her door. House watches her, unmoving, and she stops just before she twists the metal in the lock.

"Don't ask me out again," she says coldly over her shoulder, looking at the space between their bodies. "I think you were right. I spend enough time with you at work."

She disappears inside without another word, leaving House to digest her words alone. As he limps back down to the cab, he tells himself that sinking feeling his stomach is just the food from earlier, which wasn't that nice anyway.

He didn't know how he expected tonight to end, but this is certainly on his list of 'five things to never ever repeat'.

And yet: there is a certain challenge in pursuing a woman who likes to pretend she isn't interested, even if it's just to piss her off. Especially to piss her off. There's nothing more frustrating in being interested in someone you know you shouldn't be interested in.

In the back of the taxi, streetlights flashing luminously over his face as they drive on, he smirks. Perhaps it wasn't such a very bad night after all.


End file.
